


The Lion At Bay

by taichara



Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 04:40:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8149381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: Eldigan is bound by principles that weigh far more than iron's bite.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _prompt:_ "honour is inconvenient and absolute"

Agusty's broad meadows ran red with blood. Grannvale's men -- _Sigurd's men_ \-- and Agustria's troops clashed in waves under hails of arrow-fire, as swords flashed and lances gored out hapless men's hearts --

_How has it come to this?_

_Sigurd, what are you doing --?_

Freed of Agusty's donjon barely an hour before, Eldigan rode wild and black-tempered into the battlefield at the head of an arrow of mounted knights. Winding his reins around one wrist, he drew Mystletainn with his good hand -- and did his best to ignore the pain, the tongues of liquid fire that lanced up both arms as he did so. 

It was burn of manacles clamped too tightly; not locked there for long, but long enough to see him conveyed that tiny cell of black, scored stone like a common criminal. Like someone who would bolt, who would flout the king's command. Even now his wrists still itched and weeped from the rusty iron's bite, though days had passed. Even such small wounds turned foul if left untended ...

That had been the point, of course. Eldigan knew that all too well. 

_Chagall wanted to shame me before the court._

_It was not enough to imprison me for my plea; he needed -- he needs to show his power over me._

_... But he is still my liege, and Agustria's rightful king. And I spoke out of turn, no matter the reason. No matter the reason._

That reason. To avoid a war. To avoid the senseless shedding of Agustrian blood.

_Oh, my people, how I've failed you --_

Laughter bubbled up, black and bitter, as he wheeled his mount, slashing at the fools who came too close as he fought and bled for his kingdom, for his people. He hoped that fate would at least grant him mercy enough that he wouldn't cut down a familiar face --

A roar echoed across the battlefield. 

A victory cry, rough and ragged but clear enough: the castle was claimed. Claimed by Grannvale.

By Sigurd.

His throat burned with the betrayal. Why. _Why --_

Eldigan tightened his horse's reins, prepared to charge through the bleeding masses still tearing at each other, to be brought up short by the flash of a bloodied banner buried meatly deep in the battle. The royal banner.

Before his eyes he saw Chagall being dragged from his horse even as the king wheeled his own mount to race for the castle, for his throne --

_No!_

Action without thought. Eldigan spurred his poor beast forward, faster, faster; the battered ground troops parted like water in terror before his mad-eyed charge, a war-ghost in gold, in bloody crimson, pounding up to seize his perilously wounded king a heart's beat before he toppled. 

He pulled the bleeding Chagall across his cantle; scanning the fray, a curse ground out from between his teeth. If he drew back from the field, he could get His Majesty to the healers before ...

Memory flashed: the jeering, the mockery, the leering torment directed at his sister. The crowing in his very face as he pleaded for the future of Agustria itself. The irons that bit into his wrists.

But there was no choice.

Sheathing his black blade, the Lion of Nordion retreated to secure his wretched liege's life.


End file.
